


The Hawk

by detergent



Series: Corn Of Eternity [7]
Category: Flameborn (Multiverse), Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Timeline, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dark, Delicious Squirrel, Dialect, Elves Reborn As Mortal, Exceptionally Southern Indiana, F/M, Fictional Places, Government Conspiracy, Government Experimentation, Hunting, Implied/Referenced Abduction, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Squirrel Death, Imprisonment, Indiana, Magical Realism, Military Backstory, Modern Era, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Physical Abuse, Polyamory, President Trump | Dorito Mussolini, Southern Indiana, TW: Needles/IV/Injections, The Force, Trigger Warning: Medical Abuse, Urban Fantasy, Wild Game, Ósanwe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-05
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-18 22:15:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29864862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/detergent/pseuds/detergent
Summary: DeKalb is sent to the farm of old Mister Shaver as entertainment on a slow day by his superior. Shaver, known for his numerous and often unintentionally humorous reports of religious phenomena at home and in the wild has something possibly worth investigating: News of a 'heavenly angel' caught on his granddaughter's wireless camera.
Relationships: Yeyette Arnaud (OFC)/DeKalb Abernathy (OMC), Yeyette Arnaud (OFC)/Victor de l'Aigle (OMC)
Series: Corn Of Eternity [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1973479
Comments: 2
Kudos: 9





	The Hawk

**Author's Note:**

> This will definitely read as original fic unless you read between the lines or are familiar with how [Verhalen's](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen) multiverses work. As this particular arc progresses, more will become apparent.
> 
> Sören Sigurðsson and Anthony Hewlett-Johnson are OMCs created by [verhalen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verhalen/pseuds/verhalen) and are used with permission.
> 
> Nicholas Decaux is an OMC inspired by Dooku from Star Wars, the character was created by verhalen, and is used with permission.
> 
> Palcë is a co-creation of myself and verhalen.

**August 17, 2019**

"I got something special for you to take care of," Lieutenant Ed leaned across the hood of his work truck. He had his thermos of coffee within easy reach as always. "I need you specifically because Charlie showed you around the area and people know you worked with him. I woulda done this through proper channels but you know how Mister Shaver is," he poured himself a cup of coffee from his thermos and took a sip.

"Has he seen another vision of Jesus in tree bark?" DeKalb gave a silent chuckle, one side of his mouth turning up. Sergeant Cheyney, the officer DeKalb had replaced had told him story after story about Mister Shaver, who was always calling the office over on thing or another, some of the things actually concerning or useful, just not that many.

"This is better than tree bark," grinned Ed. "Shaver says his granddaughter has footage of a 'heavenly angel' that a remote camera she put in the woods as part of a school project caught a few days ago. Since we don't have much in the way of action right now and because Mister Shaver knows you personally, why don't you drive out to the farm and have a look at the footage? See if it's a poacher or anything suspicious. Humour the old man. Bring me back a story for lunch-break."

DeKalb sighed. Mister Shaver could be very amusing but he had a bit too much of the old-time religion for DeKalb's taste, even if the old fellow wasn't pushy about it. Charlie had been very respectful when dealing with Mister Shaver and DeKalb treated him in the same manner. What credibility Shaver lost for his repeated reports of Jesus everywhere was offset by his proficiency in outdoor skills and success as a hunter of larger and smaller game. DeKalb had learned as much about the area and its resources from Shaver as he had from Charlie, so he always made sure to listen to the old-timer with full attention to everything he said. Even the nuttiest stories often had nuggets of woodlore in them.

-

Shaver's granddaughter booted up her laptop and brought up the recording that had prompted her grandfather to call the field office.

" There are stories the old-timers told when I was young about that area," Mister Shaver told DeKalb as Jenny opened the program and forwarded the recorded footage to the proper timeframe. "My daddy's daddy's daddy told a tale that when he was just this high," the old man illustrated from his chair, raising his hand to the height of an eight-year-old, "a friend of his was lost in the woods for several days. 'Course children were hardier then but he hadn't had much to eat and it was cold and he just wanted to go home to his ma and pa. He was trying to find his way back but all he did was get further and further into the woods. 'Till he came across a campsite and saw a man cooking some squirrel over a fire. Squirrel is real good eatin' don't you know. Why, I'd rather have me some squirrel than a rib-eye steak..."

"Grandpa, I have the video. Don't waste Sgt. Abernathy's time with squirrel recipes. He can come back later if he wants some. There may be something special going on in the woods."

"Okay. I reckon you're right. Sorry Sergeant, I tend to git carried away sometimes."

DeKalb smiled and stifled a snort. "No problem. So the area has history?"

"Yanno, sometimes I forget you ain't from around here. My daddy's daddy's daddy, he said that his friend who were lost in the woods came across a man cooking up some squirrel. The man weren't surprised to see him at all. He just patted the ground up by the fire and invited the boy to sit. He took one of the squirrel off the fire and gave it to the boy still on the spit."

" 'Eat up,' he told the boy, who liked squirrel just about as much as I do. 'I reckon this is the first food you had in days. You been in my woods stomping around for a goodly while.' "

" The boy finished the squirrel and thanked the man, who nodded and gave him another. 'I'm sorry. I got all turned around and I lost the path. You own these woods?' "

" 'Don't nobody own the woods, I reckon,' said the man, who wore an old fancy-type coat over his buckskins. The coat had probably been real nice but it had faded to grey but the boy noticed it hadn't even been patched anywhere. 'But these are my woods just the same. You eat your fill. Sleep by the fire. And when morning comes, I'll put you on the path.' "

" Well, the boy did as he was told and he said later that squirrel was the best thing he ever et. In the morning, the man fried up some bread and they had their breakfast. Then he hoisted his black-powder rifle o'er his shoulder and began to lead the boy a good long ways. He told the boy a lotta what he knew about the woods as they walked, how to tell direction, how to mark a trail and sech. They talked the whole way and then directly, the boy heard his pa shouting his name. "

" 'That's my pa!' "

" 'Well, get on then, I bet he's worried sick. I'll follow.' "

" So the boy ran and sure enough, it was his pa and some of his cousins. His pa hugged him up and was happy and mad at the same time. 'Your ma and I were beside ourselves. Don't you go that far ever again!" His father smelled smoke in the boy's hair. 'Where have you been?' "

" The boy turned to point out his nameless friend but no one was there. 'He was right there. Honest! He gave me roast squirrel last night. He told me all about the woods. We were talking as you started yelling.' "

" 'You were talking to yourself,' said one of his cousins. 'Weren't no one with you.' "

And here the old man stopped, grinning. The granddaughter rolled her eyes. "Granddad thinks the boy was helped by an angel. _I_ thought it was a nature spirit. Old forests tend to have them, you know," she said smugly. DeKalb made a non-committal noise; he didn't want to get thrown into the middle of a Paganism versus Christianity argument now or ever.

"I wanted to know what happens out there. Local lore says that part of the woods is haunted or holy and so when we started our Indiana folklore module at school, I got grandpa to take me out there and I put up a wireless camera."

"I still don't think it was right. That's a sacred place but, well, if we caught real footage of an angel, just think of the glory we'd win for the Lord. So I took her out there and showed her the place."

"Here. I got the right timeframe keyed up. Watch- There's a spirit out there, I have proof."

She clicked the play button and DeKalb watched the screen for about twenty seconds before a figure in grey walked silently into view. It looked over its shoulder and stopped dead, bracing itself. A very recognisable burst of light enveloped the frame. He grabbed the back of the chair the teenager sat in hard and swallowed a gasp. The burst of light was the same as that from the weapon nicknamed "The Incompacitator" that the government used when dealing with violent, Forceful people. The weapon's debilitating features only acted on the Forceful. Non-Forceful people could be blinded or dazzled but a whole host of pain and discomfort lay in store for someone who could touch the Force. The flash had also overloaded the girl's camera. Once the light had receded, static increasingly filled the frame. The figure in grey had disappeared. All he could catch was a glimpse of a feathery wing at the very edge of the screen. Static ate the frame until the recording ended.

"Y'see, the angel didn't want to be filmed," Shaver chided his granddaughter softly but with no true anger. "I was too prideful at wanting to win glory for the Lord, so the angel didn't let us see his full splendour."

"Oh, granddad..." Jenny sighed and then whispered to DeKalb. "I'm sorry, he just can't accept that the nature spirit was feeding the area with its power. Of course, that would knock out our technology. That kind of spirit doesn't like technology, you know."

He continued to squeeze the chair back but managed a noise of understanding.

"So I'm going to give you a copy of the footage and you might file a report?" Jenny asked, copying the video onto a thumb-drive. She didn't want to e-mail evidence of the supernatural, she wanted to know her video was in good hands the entire way to the top.

"I'll make sure this gets into the right hands and it gets the attention it deserves." DeKalb's mind was swimming... he was sure whoever it was in the video had been hunted down by a squad from Operation Candledark. He put the thumb drive in his breast pocket, shook hands with Mister Shaver, said his goodbyes, and left the house. He climbed into the cab of his work truck and started it up and drove up the winding gravel lane that crossed the Shaver farm. At the end of the lane, he stopped, threw it into park, and buried his face in his hands. 

He sat there for twenty minutes as memories of Paris rushed over him: Leading the assault team that broke into Yeyette and Victor's townhome, the sight of the couple innocently sitting at the table drinking coffee, Yeyette on Victor's lap, the both of them nose to nose had shattered something in his head, informing him that this couple, this _French_ couple was no enemy of the United States and he had used the Force to make the Incompacitator operator's finger freeze on the trigger. He felt keenly betrayed by the Army and his government. He had been forced to destroy two lives just because the pair had the Force and his government wanted to... collect them.

He hadn't fully realised until later why he acted as he had but in the middle of chaos as his men fell choking, as darts were being fired... All he could recall for a moment was that he had damned two people to be pawns for his government, the government he had lost his last shred of faith in. The Incompacitator had failed but two of his men managed to dart the couple with Force-nullifying compound. The pair were angry and terrified and wreaked havoc as he had his crisis of faith in his government. The man, even though darted, had managed to use the Force to grab a sabre from a display on the wall and DeKalb had put himself in the way of the cut, barely knocking the powerful blow to the side so that it missed one of his men. More darts were launched, though they were overkill. That was the last straw for him and he had barked a command to cease fire. Victor had wilted to the ground. He had to gnash out the command a second time to cease fire as Yeyette was darted again as she crawled to Victor to cover him with her body.

He didn't know if the figure in the woods was innocent but he definitely knew what the bright discharge of an Incompacitator looked like. He thought of what he'd been forced to do in the past and decided to act: He was going to search and determine what was really going on. It was very likely that the person caught on camera had been hauled off to be sent to a secure facility. He scrubbed his face on the back of his hand, hating what the United States had become. Not every Forceful person got the same kind of respect or opportunities afforded to him and his family of choice, especially those strong in the Force. Either they agreed to work for the government or they were loaded up on Force nullification drugs for the rest of their lives. Even if they DID agree, usually they were drugged. Thanks to DeKalb's military connexions, the government had accepted his chosen family's word that they would try to live as inconspicuously as possible... which was why they all were in Indiana in the first place. He sighed. He reached over to the passenger seat and opened his laptop, plugged in the thumb drive, and took the coordinates off of the video. He plugged those into his GPS program and drove further into the country.

-

It took him two hours to carefully pick his way through all of the undergrowth and fallen trees- Mister Shaver and Jenny must have truly believed the old family story of angels or nature spirits to have dragged themselves this far from civilization. DeKalb kept an eye out for signs of people but it was some time before he found snapped twigs torn leaves indicating a party of perhaps six men had recently passed that way. He found fresh footprints in bare dirt- If it was a team, they didn't care if they left evidence of their trip. He nosed around until he found the tree Jenny had hung her camera on. There were no signs of a struggle anywhere nearby. He felt like a fool. DeKalb turned to go but something black jutting from an enormous sycamore trunk caught his attention. He approached and found a dart embedded in the tree's white and fawn dappled bark. Around the side of the tree, his eyes caught a smear of dried blood. On the ground, he saw another dart leaning diagonally where it had hit some leaf-litter. He retrieved it and saw it had hit its mark. He kept looking for some signs of a fallen person, a trampled-down area that would let him know that the squad got who they came for but he only found individual trails of soldiers who hadn't bothered to conceal their tracks. He traced the trails he found and concluded that their prey had managed to elude them. At one point, the trails merged and he followed them out of the woods and into the back of a cornfield. The team had cut the wire fence at the border of the field for easy passage. In the field, there was so much damage that it was obvious a helicopter had landed there. No one would have seen, there were no houses for miles.

Frustrated, DeKalb hiked up the fencerow until he was confronted by a massive bush of pasture roses. Hanging on the bush was a scrap of grey material that was not weathered in the slightest. He plucked it from the thorns and held it in his hand for a moment. Then he looked down and saw the tip of a grey sneaker, barely visible beneath the lush foliage of the bush. He squatted down and saw the sneaker was on the foot of a man lying curled up on his side, shoved as far as he could get under the thick mass of thorned canes.

"Fuck," he breathed and leaned as close to the man as he could get without impaling himself on the thorns. _NSWC Crane_ had been stencilled in black on the man's sweatshirt and pants. DeKalb leaned in closer, holding leaves out of his face in and worked his hand up to where he could take a pulse, feeling the bite of thorns in the process. The figure gave a half-hearted flinch when he touched it. "Easy there," he attempted to soothe. Beneath his fingers, he felt a thready, rapid beat. He thought of the darts and wondered how many had hit home.

The man tried to speak for a moment, his voice weak. "Feck," DeKalb managed to make out. He took his work gloves from his pocket and got out his work knife. "I definitely agree. Gonna be a hot minute before you're free," he told the man, who hadn't moved other than to weakly spew profanity and slur unfamiliar words in an accent that took him a moment to place.

"You're a long way from home, Paddy me boy," he said as he began hacking away rose canes as thick as a woman's pinky.

" 'M not Irish," slurred the man.

"I'm Sergeant Abernathy. I'm going to cut you out of here and assess you for injuries."

"No," gasped the other man.

DeKalb cut another few canes and leaned in as close as possible.

"Look, I'm with the DNR, I'm from the Nature Police, I'm not a cop-cop. Ok yes but. Yes, I could arrest you if you're a criminal or if you break the law but no one knows I'm here, okay? I don't know what's going on with you. What I know is you had a six-man Candledark team after you and you lost them. I know what Operation Candledark is, which means I know what you are. You can give me details later. Right now you're coming out from under there. I know a doctor who won't ask questions."

DeKalb cleared the rest of the intervening canes away. "Can you move at all?"

The man managed to uncurl himself but once he was on his back, he couldn't roll to get to his feet or push himself in any direction. He shook very slightly as if his body rebelled against his wishes.

"It's fine," the conservation officer used his 'This is fine but not really whatsoever,' professional voice.

He began his assessment. "What's your full name?"

"Dara Ardal O'Shea."

"Good. Stay with me."

He quickly assessed his mental state- "Who's the president?"

"Fecking Dorito Mussolini!"

A chuckle exploded from DeKalb before he could hold it back. He hid his face with his forearm for a second and more or less regained composure, though he smiled lopsidedly through the rest of his questions.

"You know where you are?"

"Middle of nowhere."

"Can you tell me what day it is?"

"August 17th, 2019. Saturday."

"You're all there. That's good. Gonna look you over for injuries, all right?"

"Sure," Dara answered breathlessly. "No monkey business."

"Promise."

DeKalb noticed the fine tremor of the man's body had become more and more pronounced the more he spoke. He took off his sweatshirt and covered him with it. He found the three dart hits Dara had taken to his chest and the many scars on him along with the scratches and bites of the thorns. When he discovered the tattoo on the man's left chest, he let out a long, low whistle. From what DeKalb could tell, he had no broken bones, he stated complaints of injury when queried except for scratches from the thorns. He denied using recreational drugs, which was probably false, given his physical symptoms but DeKalb wasn't judgemental about drugs, in any case, he just wanted a full report and to see if he needed to get the Narcan ready. He knew that the Force nullification drugs in the darts acted rapidly but usually, they had few side-effects. Well, that he knew of anyway.

The conservation officer found himself tucking his sweatshirt more comfortably around the fugitive. He felt horrible for the guy, felt conflicted about that too. _Shit, this guy could be my little brother, if I had one,_ he mused, wondering why the government wanted Dara so much. Couldn't they just let Force-sensitives live their damned lives? The fingers of DeKalb's right hand curled into a fist and he squeezed hard in a half-hearted attempt to level out his anger. He tried to remain neutral but he couldn't. Not all Force-sensitives were good people, he had to remind himself but with more damning evidence of his government's crimes against humanity laying on the damp earth in front of him, his fury grew again and he felt personally betrayed once more. 

_This isn't what I fought for. I fought for this man to live his life any goddamn way he wants. I didn't fight for commandoes to go where-the-fuck ever abducting people, ruining lives, for a lie about protecting democracy._

He let out a gusty sigh.

"Okay. I'm going to, uh, call the doctor and we'll figure out how to move you. She decides if you need to go to the hospital."

"No. Can't. System." the young man's eyes were losing focus, the assessment had worn heavily on him."Was abducted," Dara slurred. "Prisoner."

DeKalb nodded. Okay. He knew that the US was abducting Force Sensitives from around the globe for some weaponized training as a part of the Candledark Program; he and his chosen family had escaped part of that fate themselves. 

"'Kay. I get it. But you need help. Don't make me regret taking a chance on you. I am going to get the doctor."

Dara gave a forlorn whimper.

"Look, it'll be all right, okay? I know her personally. She's m'girlfriend."

He took out his iPhone and held it to his ear without dialling, feeling a bit self-conscious. Then he realised that he was putting on a show for a man who would likely understand what was going on if Dara was well enough to pay attention to him. Still, even though DeKalb had revealed his knowledge of Candledark, at this juncture, Dara would have no reason to suspect the DNR officer was Forceful and DeKalb had complicated his life enough by finding the younger man that he didn't need to add outing himself as a Force-user to the day's problems. He continued the charade of calling the doctor, the phone up to his ear but he turned away and, closing his eyes, he reached out and spoke to his girlfriend, Yeyette, through their Force bond.

A few fuzzy images wafted into his head, the warmth of generous, soft covers, the feeling of an arm curled around Yeyette's waist, the brief image of her red curls on Victor's chest. DeKalb frowned, hating to disturb her but he needed her help; he hoped it would turn out well and she'd forgive him for disturbing her lie-in with her husband.

 _"What's going on, DeKalb?"_ asked Yeyette, her voice drowsy but content in his inner hearing.

_"Honey, I'm sorry about your golden weekend but I need you to bring your bug-out bag, along with the truck and at least one other person. I got a situation here. I don't know exactly what's going on but the government has done it again. We gotta keep this under wraps. I got one party who has something drug-related going on... and he's got fire."_

_"Merde. And your assessment?"_

DeKalb rattled his other findings off.

_"I'll bring Sören and Victor. Where are you?"_

He gave the coordinates.

_"Goddamn. It's half an hour out even if I speed."_

_"Do your best for me. That truck has enough PAL decals to get you out of trouble if anyone would pull you over. Just drive safe, all right?"_

-

DeKalb kept one eye on the sky and the other on the field while he waited. He didn't know if another team would be back soon to look for their target and he felt uneasy waiting for help to arrive. Keeping under the cover of the tree branches, he dug the toe of one boot into the moist, soft earth to keep from pacing so no one would be alerted to their position by excessive movement. Dara may have had 'fire' as DeKalb and his family called Forcefulness amongst themselves but he had no idea of how he had escaped his pursuers while darted and without leaving a trace. That was something and he expected the government to rapidly dispatch another team to retrieve someone like that.

Twenty minutes later, a deep green truck came bumping along the fencerow, occasionally taking out an unavoidable row of corn.

They were here. Good. He tried to keep from thinking about just how fast Yeyette had to drive to reach them so quickly.

Still, he breathed easier.

-

They managed to get the half-delirious man up the stairs using a combination of the Force and pure manpower. Yeyette had him installed in the guest bedroom on the second floor, the nearest room to the bedroom she shared with Victor, right down the hall from DeKalb's.

"One, two, three!" Sören counted and then he and Victor transferred him to the bed, both men holding corners of the sheet Dara laid on. Yeyette held the makeshift stretcher they had fashioned and removed it as soon as their guest was settled.

"I will leave the both of you to your profession," Victor nodded to them and turned to exit the room to give them space.

"Oh no you don't," admonished Yeyette, halting him instantly. "You're the chaperone and our assistant."

Victor nodded and remained a few paces from the bed. Sören used the Force to slip his phone from his pocket and turned on the notes app. They both took turns narrating their findings.

"Scissors," Yeyette held out her hand and Sören put a pair into her palm. She cut away the sweatpants and then Dara's shirt- Both were caked with mud and plant matter from his stay beneath the rose bush.

"Oh my," she breathed at the sight of him, scars all over his muscular body like he'd been hit with birdshot or was some sort of living Saint Sebastian, arrow-shot but not fully martyred. Two wicked-looking scars sliced his lower belly... knife scars? Something from a car accident, perhaps? She made herself narrate each find. They found three shallow puncture wounds on his chest and the many scratches he had taken jamming himself beneath the cover of the rose bush. DeKalb had given them two darts he had found when they met at the back of the field.

"What happened to you?" she whispered in French, her fingers tracing one of the two most lethal-looking scars, barely skimming his flesh. She snatched her hand away as if she'd been burnt, aware that she behaved unprofessionally. She gave herself an inward shake and resumed her dictation.

"A tattoo of the seven-flames grenade of the Légion Étrangère beside which is written in Honneur et Fidélité on one line and Valeur et Discipline on a second in script. All of the ink is black."

Sören used the contents of the bug-out bag as necessary and narrated the vitals, noting that Dara had an intermediate-grade fever. He halted his app for a moment to ask: "Victor, do you have the equipment in your lab to analyse the darts to see what drug the Candledark team used?"

"I can analyse the darts, yes. It is disturbing that the young man hasn't yet regained himself fully," answered the alchemist.

"It might not be the darts," said Yeyette, who had kept silent after noting Dara's tattoo for their records, though she had resumed her inspection of him. "Look," she beckoned Sören to her side and took Dara's forearm, turning his hand palm up so that the light caught the crook of his arm. Sören saw a fading bruise surrounding another puncture wound.

"He's had a blood draw, an injection, or an infusion recently," he breathed.

Yeyette felt the gentle scrabble of fingers on the inside of her wrist. Surprised, she looked down and found Dara's hand grasping her. He blurted something musical-sounding that she didn't understand.

"None of us have any Irish. I wish I did," she told him.

The image of a cell furnished with stainless steel toilet, bracket shelf, and bed-shelf floated into her mind's eye. The image moved as if she had turned her head and she saw Dara's arm, an iv cannula Tegadermed into place. Briefly, line of sight panned up and she saw an infusion pump, a bag of what was probably saline hanging from it and a piggyback infusion with it. For a few heartbeats, a vast feeling of helplessness muddled with anger and despair washed over her.

"Constantly drugged," he managed. "Didn't want it. Made me sick during and worse now."

His fingers remained on her wrist but the feelings faded along with the image. Yeyette stood there blinking. It certainly wasn't an everyday thing for Forceful people to communicate via touching minds if they didn't have some sort of relationship. Minds could clash, something non-Forceful people tended to overlook and barging into someone's headspace could be an unforgivable violation of privacy. She felt a bit of surprise that his broadcast hadn't felt intrusive in the least, it felt like someone had handed her a cup of coffee early in the morning. Sören looked up at her from his position at Dara's bedside, concern in his eyes. Yeyette looked at him and shook her head. She was all right.

 _Can you show me if the piggyback had a label or writing on it?_ She asked their patient, who managed a small nod.

He showed her the smaller bag with its white sticker, the name O'Shea, Dara, Ardal on it, followed by a bar code. The piggyback had no identifying information it other than this. Then the scene shifted and he showed her a nurse alongside some kind of riot team. Two men pinned him against his hard metal bed though he gave no resistance. The nurse connected and then pushed some additional syringes, then fled under the protection of the armed guards. Moments after they had retreated, his head was in the toilet as he heaved. He showed her as many syringe labels as he could but none of them had any information on them whatsoever but for his name and a barcode.

"Did you find anything out?" Sören's voice broke into her thoughts. Both his face and voice were soft.

Yeyette gave herself a mental shake. She felt something cold on her cheeks. Realising that she had been crying, she went to dash the tears away and found Victor putting his handkerchief into her empty hand. She mopped her face.

"Ah, yes and no. Yes- They were drugging him at the Crane Facility but no, I don't know with what. He tried to show me but... everything that had a label on it had only his name and a barcode. I might be able to guess at some of the syringes pushed, maybe the infusion, but we're just going to have to do supportive care. To me, it looks as if they forced a dependency on some drug or compound onto him, something he couldn't tolerate anyway but is even worse in its absence. He certainly wasn't being treated for anything. It looks like they suited up a team in full riot gear every time they decided to push meds."

Sören covered his mouth with his hand, aghast.

 _It all seems true._ She told him through their bond. He nodded.

_Looking at his vitals and the state of him, it would be hard to fake. Fuck, I hate that we even have to think this way._

_"After what everyone here has gone through? After Juniper's bullshit with you as well? I'd rather not have another experience"_

"How are we going to manage this?" Sören asked out loud.

Yeyette looked at Victor. They paused for a moment and then they both smiled.

"One has friends," both answered in unison.

"Or connexions," added Victor. Yeyette laughed as Sören stared round-eyed at her husband for a moment.

"What is this look? Everyone needs connexions," Victor chuckled.

"I don't think I will ask," chuckled Sören, closing his eyes for a moment, shaking his head.

He heard Victor chuckle again in response to his gesture. "I worked for a time in pharmaceutical research while in France. I may not live there currently but it doesn't stop me from speaking with old colleagues. It may be that I can arrange for some of what we need to be delivered with all haste. It is my hope at any rate. One knows people."

"I will take care of the initial set-up," added Yeyette. She snuggled the covers around Dara with her free hand. He had fallen asleep. His gentle grip on her wrist had loosened but remained. Yeyette began pulling her wrist away but he woke up and looked around, panicked.

"Ah, I'll make the call from in here," she patted Dara's hand.

-

They had explained to Dara what they needed to do. He had rebelled at the first mention of a needle. With a burst of hysterical strength, he sat up, pulling at Yeyette, who staggered a step to keep from falling onto the bed. He coiled himself to jump up and then looked down to his hand on Yeyette's wrist, momentarily conflicted. He tore his hand away as if he'd been grafted to her, and, wild-eyed, got his feet on the wood floor. Sören finally had to hold him down with the Force while Yeyette grabbed him and put him back to bed, yanking the covers back over the young man's nakedness. Sören hated himself for doing it, seeing the look of pure panic on the young man's face, his teeth gritting and tears running freely. Dara gave a small scream. Everything in the room shook for a moment, the alarm clock at the bedside shot up, the plug flew free from the socket. Brow furrowed in concentration, Victor battled the young man's use of the Force and slowly managed to overcome him. Dara soon relented and stopped trying to create a storm of objects to protect himself. For a moment there was no sound other than Dara's terrified panting.

"Listen to me, we're not going to hurt you. You were drugged; you're in withdrawal and your symptoms are concerning. No one wants to hurt you. Just stay until you're better and then you can walk out that door any time you like. We won't let the commandoes get you. We won't let the teams get you," Yeyette knelt at his side and smoothed his hair. "It happened to me too; it happened to Victor. We know what it's like. Just stay until you're well."

She broadcast the briefest scene of the facility where she and Victor had stayed prior to being shipped off to Beauregard.

"I hate feeling so helpless. I'm so damn tired," he sobbed, reaching for her hand again. She let him take her fingers in his hot grasp.

With a firm gentleness Sören had seldom seen from her, Yeyette began to explain to Dara why he needed an IV and that she wouldn't suggest it to him otherwise. He needed to have whatever they had forced upon him at the Crane Facility nullified or cleansed from his system. She and Sören needed to run lab tests to see if they could identify what they were dealing with. Dara would need infusions to help him overcome harm from the drugs. As she tried to explain, Sören set up for the IV and donned a pair of purple vinyl gloves. With extreme reluctance, the young man allowed him to take his arm, turning his face into Yeyette's forearm, shaking.

"Just do it," he gnashed. His tears dampened Yeyette's skin.

Sören paused. "Maybe you should handle this," he sighed to her.

" _Mon petit_ , I can place the IV or I can hold your hand, it's up to you but I can't do both."

Dara left his face buried in her wrist for a moment. Yeyette gave Sören a sad, helpless glance, then looked over her shoulder at Victor whose return gaze brimmed with sympathy.

Dara sniffed. "Okay. Please. You do it."

He released her and she paused for a moment to gently brush away the hair that clung to his forehead. She came around the bed to Sören's side and he took the alcohol foam from the bag and disinfected her hands. She put on gloves and got out the tourniquet.

"You probably shouldn't watch," Sören advised the young man.

Victor had been watching the scene play out after putting down the patient's Forceful rebellion. He crossed the room and took Yeyette's vacated place looking almost fatherly as he did so.

"If you like, you may squeeze my hand," he offered in French. The young man searched his face, touched, and accepted the proffered grip.

While Sören held back to attend to any new tantrum Dara might throw, Yeyette quickly tourniqueted Dara's arm, palpated a good vein, and luckily, got a flash of blood on her first try. The IV was in place before he realised she had begun. She taped the needle and a length of tubing in place. She did not notice how her patient watched her, an expression like a feral cat finally tamed to hand. Sören noticed and decided he might mention it later.

 _"I'm sorry,"_ Yeyette told Sören once she had finished. She gathered all of their discarded supplies into a biohazard bag she'd smuggle into the hospital on her next shift.

_" You didn't hurt my ego."_

_"No, I mean for involving you in this. We've taken in a fugitive from a government program. Believe me, this is not how we usually live our lives. I don't want you to pay the price for the decisions my family makes."_

_"We're family too. And the government here is full of fucked-up bullies. Fuck them. I'm glad to help."_

Yeyette nodded but continued to look upset.

-

"Don't ask how I got these, okay? Just in case you need to deny knowledge of it later."

"What, are we spies now?" quipped Sören, trying to lighten the atmosphere.

"No, but you know where Dara has been lately. Better you keep some distance from this if you can," Yeyette answered him, frowning. 

Sören spread the papers over the kitchen table as he and Yeyette studied the various graphs and values, in an attempt to determine what the government had Dara on. She had disappeared with the blood vials she'd drawn from their patient and returned with the reports some three hours later.

Once they had agreed on the treatment plan, they climbed the stairs and went to speak to Victor who had remained in the room with their patient.

Yeyette's husband met them at the door. "You both have decided what you need to help our guest?"

"It's not anything particularly difficult to get... well, I mean legally. Neither Sören or I can prescribe some of this without the government's knowledge."

Yeyette handed Victor a small piece of paper she'd scribbled their requirements onto.

"Oh, I see. Yes, this does make sense. They do watch to see who orders these particular pharmaceuticals. The treatments will have to be compounded. Still, no hardship. I can arrange this. However, I will have to lend out the villa for two weeks. Well, no matter: It is not as if we are about to visit Nice in the near future," his optimistic tones shaded into bitterness at the end of his speech.

"I'm sorry Vicky," Yeyette sighed.

"You did nothing," he put his arm around her waist and kissed the top of her head. "However, what I think you might do, for the moment at least, is sit with the young man in there until he falls asleep. He looks dead tired but he will not rest. I'll make my calls. When I finish those, I'll bring us up a tray. We can take tea while he sleeps."

Victor kissed Yeyette's cheek and nodded to Sören, leaving them standing at the door. They peered in and saw that indeed, Dara lay there wide awake, staring out the window at the treetops as the leaves rustled in the breeze.

Yeyette grabbed the door feeling guilty. She made no move to go in.

"He's like a lost child," she whispered to Sören. 

"Well, you were kind to him. And he's been through hell."

"I showed him the facility where we were kept before they transferred us here," she said, frowning. "I had to get him to trust me so he'd let us treat him. It's my fault."

"What are you talking about?"

"He was so vulnerable, Sören, and I made him trauma-bond with me. He imprinted on me and it's my fault. You heard Victor."

" I'd want someone around who I knew understood me if I were in his situation. You know, sometimes people like you because you did a nice thing for them, right? You're a nice person."

Yeyette shot him a look of objection, one eyebrow lifted, her mouth turned down.

"I know, I know. You're a mean asshole who takes nothing from no one," Sören added lightly but in a tone that said he didn't believe the words he said. He patted her shoulder.

"Just don't go on any dates with him or try to adopt him while we're treating him."

"I don't even know him."

"Perfect! Then you're worried about nothing. I'll sit with you and then you have a chaperone because you might try to ask him out if I don't guard his virtue."

"Ass." She snorted. Sören grinned.

"We can order take-out for supper once DeKalb, Nicholas and Anthony are home. Maybe our guest will be asleep by then."

"Maybe."

They pushed the door all of the way open and went in. Sören dragged a second upholstered chair across the room and flopped down into it.

Stalling for time, Yeyette opened the window nearest the bed, the one Dara had been staring out, then scooted her seat closer. At a bit of a loss as to what to do until the drugs arrived, she put her phone on one leg and began to reach for Dara's hand. Having been a captive herself, as most of her teenaged years were virtual house-arrest by her mother, she recalled how lonely she had felt and how very sad and how frightened. Their fingers bumped as he reached up for hers.

" _Je suis désolé_ ," he apologised. His French was perfect. "I, ah, don't know your names."

"He is Sören. I'm Yeyette. The gentleman who was assisting us is Victor."

Dara gave a sleepy sigh. She could feel the tension leaving him.

" _Merci_ Sören. _Merci_ , Yeyette."

" _De rien_ ," she replied. Their fingers wove together. He sighed again. She doubted he had heard her.

Yeyette leaned her head against the back of the chair and closed her eyes.

**Author's Note:**

>  **hag·gard**  
>  _adjective_  
>  1\. looking exhausted and unwell, especially from fatigue, worry, or suffering.  
> "I trailed on behind, haggard and disheveled"
> 
> 2\. (of a hawk) caught for training as a wild adult of more than twelve months.  
>  _noun_  
>  a haggard hawk.


End file.
